


One Good Scare

by blueink3



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-03 23:50:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16335698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueink3/pseuds/blueink3
Summary: Mummy invites Sherlock, John, and Rosie to the country for her birthday, which just so happens to coincide with the annual Harvest Festival, an event Sherlock loathes. With John seemingly making the wrong move at every turn and with ghosts hiding in each of their closets, what will it take for their (Halloween) masks to finally come off?





	One Good Scare

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scullyseviltwin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/gifts).



There’s a red leaf sticking to the window of 221B, the early morning mist sealing it to the glass with its dew. John watches as the sun peeks over the buildings opposite, lighting up the previously dull foliage in shades of vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows as the last vestiges of green cling on. Its veins contrast with its fragile edges like a skeleton seen through translucent skin, and John shivers against the ever-present chill that seems to settle in the flat from mid-September until early May, contemplating lighting the fire despite the fact that they’re leaving in only a matter of hours.

“ _W_ _hy_ are we doing this again?” comes Sherlock’s muffled voice from the bedroom, the whine apparent in the drawn out nature of his vowels.

John sighs and places the bowl of oatmeal he had been holding on Rosie’s tray, handing her the plastic spoon as she murmurs “ta” (the closest to ‘thanks’ she gets these days) and dives into her breakfast with typical Watsonian enthusiasm.

“Because it’s October, it’s your mother’s birthday, she asked, and we said, ‘yes.”

“You said ‘yes.”

“Yes, I said ‘yes.” John pinches the bridge of his nose as Rosie bangs her spoon on the table.

“Without talking to me!”

“Sherlock. She’s your mother. The woman who birthed you.”

“She’s insufferable.”

“She’s lovely.”

“You’re biased.”

“Of course I am,” he finishes simply. “She gave the world you and what kind of world would it be otherwise?”

The silence that follows brings a quirk of the lips to John’s face yet a twinge of uncertainty to his gut. Did he take it too far?

But a huff comes a moment later followed by a muttered, “Fine,” proving that John’s instincts were correct. He smiles smugly, an expression which Rosie mirrors as she holds out a bite of oatmeal for him.

“Oh thank you,” he says, bending down and allowing her to scoop the apple-cinnamon flavored concoction into his mouth before pressing a kiss to her head. “Mycroft’s people are delivering the car at noon and I told your mother we’d be there in time for tea,” he calls again. He pads down the hall, sash of his dressing down trailing on the hardwood floor. “So you better be packing,” he says, poking his head in Sherlock’s open door.

The man himself is perched on the edge of the bed facing the far wall like some sort of angelic gargoyle, shoulders slumped.

“Sherlock - ”

“I said, ‘fine,” he mutters, refusing to turn. “We’ll go.”

John closes his eyes because that’s all they’ve seemed to end up doing in the three months since he moved back in. Tiptoe around each other. Accommodate.

“Don’t do that,” he murmurs.

“Do what?” Sherlock asks in a tone that implies he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Nothing. Nevermind.” John lingers in the doorway for a moment more, biting his lip and silencing everything he wishes he could say. _Stop giving in. I’m not made of glass. You never used to give in so easily. You won’t break me._ He knocks twice on the doorframe and blows out a breath. “Tea’s getting cold.”

_I won’t leave._

And then he’s gone.

***

John zips up his black coat and slings the diaper bag over his shoulder, watching out of the corner of his eye as Sherlock picks up both of their bags (a responsibility he took over when it became obvious on their first outing that John needed to carry Rosie) and heads for the door.

“Keys?” he asks as he bends down with a grunt and hoists Rosie onto his hip. At 20 months, she seems to be getting bigger and therefore heavier by the day.

“Left breast pocket,” Sherlock replies, nodding down at the suit jacket he wears beneath his Belstaff before turning and stomping down the stairs. John isn’t sure if that’s just the heft of the bags he’s carrying or a not-so-silent protest of their holiday. Regardless, John follows as he always does, and by the time he pulls the door shut by its knocker, careful not to trip over the decorative pumpkins Mrs. Hudson has laid out on the stoop, Sherlock has the bags in the boot and his mobile to his ear.

“Come on, John. If you insist upon this farce, then I’d rather get it over and done with as soon as possible,” he barks, before returning to conversation at hand.

John shakes his head, Rosie a comforting weight in his arms with one tiny hand cupping the back of his neck as the other holds tight to the collar of his jacket. The October wind is biting, causing her to tuck her head into the hollow of his throat, and he closes his eyes and breathes in the familiar scent of her shampoo. She is home. Just as much as the madman beside him, currently barking orders at Greg to not mess up the filing system of the cold case closet while he’s away.

“You do realize it’s only the 29th, right?” he asks as Sherlock hangs up, cutting off whatever Lestrade had been saying through the mobile’s tiny speaker.

“So?” he replies, moving to help John maneuver Rosie into the carseat without John having to ask. He gives Rosie a silly face as he clasps the buckle and she giggles, reaching out a sticky hand for his nose.

“Your mother’s birthday isn’t until tomorrow.”

Sherlock pauses. “So why the hell are we going to _day?_ ”

John rolls his eyes and opens the driver-side door, sliding in as Sherlock stalks around the other side of the car in a huff. “Because we promised to spend her whole birthday with her. Morning through evening,” he says when the other man is settled.

“There you go with that ‘we’ again.”

“Sherlock - ”

“I don’t recall being a part of any conversation - ”

“She’s your mother.”

“ - determining our arrival and departure date. And why are you talking to my mother?”

 _“Please,”_ John begs and silence reigns in the Range Rover as Sherlock’s mouth snaps shut. “Can we not argue? Please?”

Sherlock turns to face forward, staring hard out the window as if Baker Street alone could give him the answers to all of life’s mysteries. “Drive on, then.”

John rolls his eyes again, this time fondly. “Right-o, sir.” He glances in the rearview mirror at Rosie as she flicks the wing of her stuffed bumble bee back and forth, not caring a whit about the domestic squabble. “You ready to see Nana and Poppy Holmes?” he asks and she cheers, little arms raising the bee high above her head.

Sherlock has gone still beside him as the Rover pulls out into traffic, and John allows the air to thicken for a moment or two before he finally breaks. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Sherlock.”

“Why do you call them that?” he blurts out and John frowns as he makes a turn.

“Call who what?”

“My parents. Nana and Poppy Holmes.” The words roll off his tongue without the disdain he usually reserves for such nicknames.

“Because we spent Christmas with them last year. And I assume we’ll spend Christmas with them this year. And the year after that and the year after that. They came for her first birthday. They’re…” he sighs and grips the steering wheel harder. “Sherlock, other than Mrs. Hudson, they’re the only grandparents she’s going to have.”

Sherlock’s brow creases in confusion. John is loath to admit it’s rather adorable. “But that would imply that I… that I occupy a certain place in her life.”

John whips his head to the passenger seat so quickly, the car swerves. “Of course you do.” Sherlock’s look of confusion remains, but John no longer finds it adorable. He finds it heartbreaking. “Sherlock… of _course_ you do.” He places a hand on Sherlock’s knee, intending to comfort, but he feels the quadricep beneath his palm tighten and he swiftly retreats, afraid he’s only made things worse.

“Sherlah!” Rosie cries, not having quite mastered the ‘ck’ sound yet and inadvertently saving the day.

“Yes, Watson?” he asks, turning around and staring at her seriously, despite the light blush coloring his cheeks.

She holds out the stuffed bee that he gave her for her first birthday.

“Oh, is this for me?”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you,” he says reverently as he takes it, turns back around, and places it in his lap.

John smiles, because he knows what’s coming next. The twitch of Sherlock’s lips shows he does as well.

“Sherlah!” she yells a moment later and they both chuckle.

“Yes, Watson?” he asks again, turning around with an overly inquisitive yet sincere look on his face.  

“Mine,” she grunts, straining against her straps as she reaches out for it again.

“Oh, did you want it back?” He holds the bee up and she struggles further.

“Yeah,” she replies with a bit of a whine, clearly still learning the basics of sharing.

“What do you say, love?” John prompts, glancing in the rearview mirror to to find his daughter sporting a rather Sherlockian nose scrunch.

“Pease.” L’s are a work in progress, too.

“Oh all right,” Sherlock says solemnly, handing the bee back and watching with a fond grin as she clutches it to her chest with a satisfied hum. He tugs on her shoe and she lets out peal of laughter.

 _He’s so good with her_ , John thinks, certainly not for the first time. So indulgent. Never condescending. He dotes on her and she adores him. John sees it every day in her eyes and it makes his chest ache in a way that’s both satisfying and not nearly enough. It’s a longing he’s never felt before and one he’s not sure he’ll ever understand.

Sherlock turns back around and John watches the smile slowly slide from his face as the tension creeps back into his shoulders. Sherlock loves his parents, John knows this. Acting put-upon is part of the facade and half the fun for him of going on a trip like this. But as John sneaks glances at the man beside him staring forlornly at his own reflection in the window, he knows that Sherlock’s reluctance this time is very much real.

And he, the person who’s supposed to know him best, has no idea why. Perhaps now is not the time to mention that he promised they would stay until the 31st.

Sherlock leans his forehead against the door, breath fogging up the cool glass.

 _No_ , John thinks. _Definitely not._

_***_

John put the radio on within the first 30 minutes of the drive, unable to stand the silence that seemed to be suffocating every member of their little troupe. Even Rosie was lethargic, lazily humming a song that was nothing like the motown hit coming in over the speakers. And about 45 minutes after that, long after they had traded congested city streets for the open motorway, Sherlock reached over and turned the dial down, gesturing towards the back with his head at John’s questioning look. Sure enough, he glanced in the rearview mirror to find Rosie conked out, head lolling against the seat and mouth open, drooling slightly on her bumble bee.

Which is why now, two and a half hours after they left Baker Street, Rosie is wide awake as they make their way through the small country lanes, shouting at the cows and gasping at the sheep as Sherlock lists the scientific classification of every animal they pass. Even the border collie ( _Canis lupus familiaris, thank you very much)._

John loves the Holmes house, despite that one fateful Christmas and the fact that Sherlock’s hackles seem to go up whenever they come. It’s cosy and warm and everything he wanted his broken family home to be when he was growing up. To know that Mr. and Mrs. Holmes have opened up their doors to John and Rosie makes him more grateful than he could ever possibly express.

He had mentioned this once to Mrs. Holmes, but she merely tutted and patted his cheek. “John, if you let us be a part of that little girl’s life,” she had said, nodding down at eleven-month-old Rosie where she napped on John’s lap, “that’s thanks enough for us.”

“What would you say to being something… more than just Mr. and Mrs. Holmes?” he had asked.

She tilted her head and frowned at him, the spitting image of her son. “Like what, dear?”

“Like... “ he glanced down at Rosie and ran his hand over her head, thinking of the grandparents he wished he had met and the absent parents he swore he’d never be, “... Nana and - and Poppy, perhaps?”

She had sucked in a breath and tears filled her eyes as her fingers covered her trembling lips. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came so she closed it again and gave him a watery smile, cupping his cheek tenderly as she exhaled shakily. “We’d be honored, John. Absolutely honored.”

Her words echo in his ears as he pulls into the pebbled drive, feeling Rosie’s tiny feet kicking the back of his seat in her excitement.

“Nana! Poppy! Nana! Poppy!” she chants over and over as John exits the car.

“Yes, yes,” he says, struggling to unbuckle her as she squirms. “Sweetheart, stay still for a second.”

“Nana! Poppy!”

“How does she manage ‘Poppy’ but can’t manage the ‘ck’ sound on _my_ name?” Sherlock huffs as he pulls their bags from the back.

John smiles as he lifts her from the carseat and places her on wobbly legs on the ground where she immediately latches onto his trousers as she gets her bearings. “Because she knows it would go straight to your head,” he replies.  

Sherlock scoffs, a sound that’s drowned out by the loud squeal that comes from the direction of the door.

“My darling girl!” Mrs. Holmes greets, bustling down the steps and making her way down the path.

“Nana!” Rosie gasps, wobbling as she totters over the stone driveway, managing to make it to the older woman’s arms before she can fall.

Mrs. Holmes presses kisses to her cheeks which has Rosie giggling and squirming, and John chuckles at the sight.

“Mrs. Holmes,” he greets, pressing a kiss to her cheek, but when she pulls away, she smacks him on the arm. “Ow! I just got here! What did I do?”

“John, your daughter is my granddaughter. I think we’re a bit beyond ‘Mrs. Holmes,’ don’t you? Call me Mum. Or Margaret if you must.”  

“O-kay,” John replies, unsure which he should commit to at the moment and feeling overwhelmed by the weight of the answer.

Mrs. Holmes - Margaret - merely gives him a knowing look before moving onto Sherlock, Rosie still happily ensconced in her embrace. “My boy, come here, let me look at you.”

Sherlock trudges over and flippantly holds out his arms for inspection.

“You’re still not eating enough. I thought John was trying to fatten you up.”

“I am,” John calls, picking up the bags where Sherlock dropped them. “He’s a stubborn git.”

“Don’t I know it. Come and give us a kiss then,” she orders, holding her cheek out expectantly.

“Mummy,” he dutifully says, though his eyes sparkle as he leans down and presses a peck.

“Oh my love,” she replies as he pulls away, using her free hand to pinch his chin. “I’ve missed you.”

Sherlock hums, which turns into a grunt as John shoves his suitcase at him.

“We’ve missed you too,” John says, throwing a glare over his shoulder at Sherlock as Margaret turns to lead them into the house.

“Daddy’s just gone to town to finalize preparations with the committee.”

“Preparations? What committee?” Sherlock asks, already suspicious, but John can’t care about that because the house smells like firewood and cinnamon and cloves and apples and it takes every ounce of strength he has not to drop the case he’s carrying and collapse on the sofa with a blanket, a book, and a cuppa.

“For the festival, dear. You remember.”

“No?” he questions, not having any qualms about dropping his case abruptly by the foot of the stairs. John places his more carefully down next to it.

“The Harvest Festival?” Margaret continues, putting Rosie on the ground and letting her inspect her new surroundings. “You know, the one the town’s been hosting since you were her age?”

Sherlock’s face drains of all color. “That’s _this_ weekend?”

Margaret looks at him as if he’s grown another head. “It’s the Saturday of every Halloween weekend. It just so happens to fall on the 30th this year and - ”

Sherlock whirls around to John. “Did you know about this?”

“Sherlock, I just got here. How could I possibly know about this?”

“ _And_ we thought Rosie would love to go,” Margaret finishes, eyes narrowed.

“Well you seemed to plan to rest of this trip,” he continues, ignoring his mother. “Stands to reason you’d plot this too!” he snaps and John holds up his hands in self-defense.

“No one is plotting anything. We came to celebrate your mother’s birthday.”

“Which any good son would be glad to do,” Margaret reminds sternly.

“I don’t see Mycroft here,” Sherlock sneers, but Margaret merely arches an eyebrow.

“He’s coming tomorrow.”

“Oh for God’s sake!” Sherlock spins on his heel and stalks out of the house, coat billowing in the breeze coming in from the still-open door. John makes a move to follow but Margaret’s hand on his arm stops him.

“Let him go.”

John exhales sharply through his nose and watches Sherlock’s figure until he disappears down the drive, around the corner, and into the lane. John had hoped the events at Sherrinford would thaw the brothers’ frosty relationship, but they settled right back into their old habits. Honestly, John wouldn’t know what to do with himself if they started actually being _nice_ to each other. He shivers at the thought.

“Daddy!” comes Rosie’s voice.

“Yes, love?” he says as he turns to find her on her toes, reaching up towards the kitchen table which houses a plate of freshly baked cookies. “Oh you sneaky thing,” he chuckles, striding into the kitchen and hoisting her up onto his hip. “We’ve got to ask Nana first. What do you say?”

“Pease?”

Margaret tilts her head and sighs, as if Rosie attempting ‘please’ is just the most precious thing she’s ever seen. Truth be told, it is.

“If it’s all right with your Daddy, that’s why I baked them.”

“Oh I think Herself has earned a cookie today, hm?” He leans down low enough for her to grab one. She moves it to her left hand and reaches out her right for another, but he pulls her back, causing her to make an indignant squawk. “One at a time, please.”

She grumbles but promptly munches on the cookie as he places her back on the floor.

“What do you say?”

“Ta,” she replies, spitting crumbs everywhere and causing John to shake his head ruefully.

“One manner at a time. We’ve tried not talking with our mouth full, but it hasn’t quite taken yet.”

Margaret chuckles and bats the thought away. “You should have seen my boys at her age. Right terrors, the both of them.” She doesn’t bring up Eurus and neither does John. Some terrors are best left in the dark.

John wets a paper towel and mops up the crumbs Rosie leaves in her wake before picking her up and plopping her down on a wooden chair at the table that’s entirely too high for her, just to contain the mess into one area. Margaret sits across from her and basks in the glow of Rosie’s presence. It’s wonderful to see someone look at his daughter that way. With such unconditional love. He knows he does. And he’s seen Sherlock do it when he thinks John isn’t looking. But this - this is just unabashed and it’s lovely.

“Pease?” Rosie tries again now that she’s finished her first cookie and John relents as he takes the seat beside her.

“All right. But only because we’re at Nana and Poppy’s,” he says as he hands her one before running his fingers through her curls. “Don’t get used to cookies before dinner, young lady.”

“Yeah,” she says even though she probably has no idea what exactly she’s acquiescing to.  

He glances up to find Margaret staring at them warmly, head tilted and a soft smile on her face.

“You’re so very good with her.”

“She makes it easy,” he replies and it’s true. Sure, she has her strops, but as babies go, she’s been remarkably well-behaved. As if she knows John’s had a hell of a few years and she’s agreed to cut him a bit of slack. Part of him wonders if she’ll make up for it later in life, like during her teenage years (a thought that genuinely keeps him up at night), but he figures he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it. Besides, he’s not alone.

Not really.

He glances out the window, hoping to see a swirl of Byronic coat, but John knows Sherlock is probably half a mile away by now.

“He’s all right, isn’t he?” Margaret asks and John runs his fingers through Rosie’s hair once more, just to sort his thoughts.

“I think so. I don’t know what’s got him in a knot at the moment, but to be honest, things have been… different since I came back. I mean, they were never going to be the same, and it’s not a bad different necessarily, it’s just… cautious.” He’s rambling and he knows it. “We’re being so careful with each other. And we were never careful.”

Margaret places her hand on top of his where it rests on the table. “Time has passed. Things have happened.”

John nods and finds his throat has gone tight. She knows now. She and Mr. Holmes both do. After the business with Eurus, it seemed only fair that all of their demons come out of the closet and that included the truth about Mary - both her shooting Sherlock and the aftermath of her death. Sherlock was unbelievably kind in his protection of John, but John still insisted on interrupting with the whole truth. If the Holmes’ were going to let John be in their lives, then they needed to know what kind of a man he was.

“A good one,” Mrs. Holmes had replied.

“A brave one,” Mr. Holmes had affirmed.

And John had broken down in tears at this very table, just as he had done in the sitting room of 221B, letting Mrs. Holmes wrap her arms around him and cocoon him in a mother’s love. A month later, he asked them to be Rosie’s grandparents.

Suddenly, ‘Margaret’ seems insufficient for the affection he feels for the woman sitting across from him. ‘Mum’ is wholly more appropriate.

But perhaps another time.

“We’re just… getting our bearings, I think,” he says eventually, when he gets his voice under control. “We’ll find our way back, slowly but surely.”

“I have no doubt,” Margaret says, patting his hand once more before reaching across and wiping Rosie’s chocolate smeared mouth with a napkin.

“Would you mind watching her for a moment?” John asks. “I’ll take the bags upstairs.”

“Of course. You’re in Myc’s old room and Sherlock’s in his. We put the cot in the little sitting room up there to give you a bit of privacy.”

“Thanks,” John replies, turning to exit the kitchen before pausing. “And when Mycroft comes?”

“Oh you know him,” Margaret chuckles. “I’ll be lucky if I get him to stay for dinner let alone through the night.”

John nods and heads toward the stairs, wondering why the sensation currently roiling in his gut feels oddly like disappointment.

After all, if he got bumped from his bed, where else would he have to go?

***

By the time Mr. Holmes ( _William,_ John reminds himself) returns from his committee meeting with a sulking Sherlock in tow, the sky has darkened, the almost full moon has risen, and John’s bits have nearly frozen off.

He’d spent the last hour in the garden under the guise of checking out the gutters to see if William needed any help cleaning out the leaves, before giving up all pretense, plopping down on the top step, and staring at text after unanswered text on his infuriatingly silent mobile:

**Where did you go?**

**Are you coming home soon?**

**Rosie’s eating all of your mum’s chocolate chip maple cookies. I know they’re your favorite.**

**You left your scarf in the car. You should have it. It’s cold.**

Margaret had taken pity on him and tossed a knit blanket around his shoulders before shoving a cup of spiked apple cider into his numb hands with a knowing look and an assurance that Rosie was eating her peas (translation: scattering them about the kitchen floor).Which is how the Misters Holmes, elder and younger both, find him nearly twenty minutes later, sitting on the step bundled in his coat with Sherlock’s scarf around his neck.

“John?” William asks, cocking his head and staring at him like he’s lost his mind.

At this point, John’s pretty sure he has.

“Mr. Holmes,” he greets with a grunt as he stands on frozen legs.

“What on earth are you doing out here, m’boy?” The older man steps forward and shakes John’s hand in a healthy grip.

“Just enjoying a bit of country air,” he replies nonchalantly, but he can feel Sherlock’s keen gaze raking over his body, deducing just how many minutes he’s been outside, freezing his bollocks off as he waits for his mad flatmate to return to him. “And what have you both been up to?” His eyes remain on William, but the question is undoubtedly for Sherlock.

“Oh you know,” the older man replies, sliding his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels, “finalizing the haunted house, divvying up the baked good duties, terrorizing the city council. The usual.”

John snorts. “Right.” He knows which task fell to Sherlock.

“Are my girls inside?” he asks, sharp eyes alight, and John can’t help but smile at the love he sees reflected there.

“Indeed they are,” he replies, chuckling as William rubs his hands together, breezes by him, and flings the door wide open. He hears a shrieked “Poppy!” before the door shuts that brings a smile to his face.

Sherlock is still standing on the path, halfway between the door and the gate, staring at his shoes.

“You wanna tell me what that was all about?” John asks.

“You’re wearing my scarf.”

John shrugs. His shoulders are stiff. “Well, you didn’t seem to be using it.”

Sherlock grunts and moves to enter the house, but John gets a hand about his forearm.

“No. Tell me what’s wrong. You’re being a tit, more so than usual, and I won’t have you ruining your mother’s birthday because your knickers are in a knot. So… what is it?”

“It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

“Stop lying to me!” John finally snaps and Sherlock stares at him wide-eyed. And why not? They’ve been so bloody cautious around each other that John didn’t even yell when he found those pickled eyes in the vegetable crisper last week. “Please,” he finishes more quietly.

Sherlock sighs and glances down at the hand still on his forearm, but John doesn’t remove it. “Sometimes my home has keener eyes than I would like. It’s nothing you’ve done, John.”

And with that, he pulls out of John’s fingers and proceeds into the house, leaving John to stand there for a moment, harsh breath steaming up in front of him like smoke from a doused flame.

What the bloody hell does that even _mean_?

He gets a hand on the door and opens it just in time to hear Sherlock’s voice echo down the hall:

“ -at do you mean we’re staying until _Sunday_?”

He closes his eyes, expecting the bellow, but he still flinches when it comes a moment later:

“JOHN.”

***

John bids Margaret and William goodnight after a lovely meal (even with Sherlock still sulking at the head of the table) of hearty shepherd’s pie and leaves Sherlock in the corner of the sitting room, nose buried in one of his mother’s mathematics books. He pretends he doesn’t feel the man’s eyes track him up the stairs, but frankly, he’s too exhausted to call him out on it. Packing up a toddler (and a grown one, too) and then driving for two and a half hours has worn him out.

He pokes his head into the tiny sitting room just off Mycroft’s old room and listens for a moment to Rosie’s even breaths. It’s still the most soothing sound in the world. He daren’t press a kiss to her head, though. She’s going through a light sleeping patch and he’d be a fool to tempt fate. His daughter is about as pleasant as Sherlock when sleep deprived. With one last glance, he retreats to the bedroom and strips down to his pants, pulling on flannel trousers and a vest, and sliding under the covers.

He’s asleep before the clock has the chance to click over from 23:06 to 23:07.

***

The light is streaming in the opposite way it does in Baker Street, which is the first reminder John gets that he is no longer at home. The second being that Rosie’s cot is not in the corner, which sets his heart to panicking before he remembers that she’s just on the other side of the door in the sitting room.

Or she was.

Once glance at the clock tells him it’s well beyond the time she normally allows him to sleep until. He throws the covers back and pads over to the door, confirming that, yes, someone has released her from the wooden cot that’s old enough to have been at least Sherlock’s if not Mycroft’s.

He throws a dressing gown on and puts his feet into his slippers, following the scent of eggs, bacon, and coffee down the stairs.

“Daddy!” Rosie cries from her highchair and he bends down to press a kiss in her hair and Margaret rubs his back as she bustles by to place a plate of bacon on the table.

“Morning, my love. Someone got you up and let daddy sleep, did they?” he says as much to her as to the rest of the room.

“Don’t look at me,” William says, flicking his newspaper. “I only just came down 15 minutes ago.”

“Lazy man,” Margaret murmurs even as she presses a kiss on his check. “T’wasn’t me either,” she chirps, tapping the side of her nose and winking in the direction of the corner.

Only then does he notice Sherlock visibly shrinking further behind the newspaper section he’s stolen from his father, knees tucked up to his chest as his dressing down billows around him.

“Did Sherlock come get you?” he says to Rosie instead and she smiles and nods, holding out a fork with a piece of egg on it for him. “Thank you, darling,” he replies as he eats it and straightens to find Margaret holding out a cup of coffee for him. “Oh bless you.”

She pats his cheek and only then does he remember -

“Oh, happy birthday, Margaret!”

“Margaret, finally!” she cries. “A step up from _Mrs. Holmes,_ I’ll say.”

“I’m a work in progress,” he replies, flushing with the knowledge of what comes after ‘Margaret’ in her mind.

_Mum._

Sherlock clears his throat and John takes a healthy sip of coffee as his ears still burn, wondering what the man would make of John calling his mother ‘mum if he expresses such concern over John’s daughter calling his parents ‘Nana and Poppy.’

“If only my own flesh and blood wished me a happy birthday,” she grumbles with an exaggerated sigh aimed in the direction of the corner.

There’s a pause before a murmured, “Happy birthday, Mummy,” comes from behind Sherlock’s paper. It’s pathetic, but it’s something and the warm smile on Margaret’s face proves she sees it as such.

“Thank you, dear,” she replies gaily, as if he had presented her with a bouquet of flowers. Speaking of which, John may have to hunt some down in the village to give to her from Rosie.

“What’s on the docket for today?” he asks, sitting at the table and tucking into the plate Margaret places in front of him.

“Oh a bit of this, a bit of that,” she vaguely replies which causes Sherlock’s newspaper to abruptly lower.

“Mummy, no.”

“Oh come now, you don’t even know what I was - ”

“Mummy, _no._ ”

“Honestly, it’s just a bit of fancy dress.”

“Absolutely not - ”

“Sherlock, dear - ”

“- It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s tradition.”

“No.”

“William,” she snaps and he gasps as if she had slapped him.

John looks at William the Elder with raised eyebrows but the man merely shrugs and shakes his head, weary of this clearly decades old fight.

“For me, Sherlock,” she pleads. “For my birthday.”

“Sorry,” John begins, “what’s going on?”

But Margaret and Sherlock ignore him, continuing their own silent battles of wills. He stares at her with narrowed eyes before groaning towards the ceiling and her face immediately lights up with a smile, clearly pleased as punch at her coup. Now John knows where Sherlock gets his emotional manipulation from.

“The Harvest Festival. It’s tradition to dress up for it.”

“As what?” John asks, lead immediately dropping into his stomach.

“Oh anything,” Margaret replies with a flick of her wrist. “There’s no theme. There is a contest though, and last year, Daddy came in second. He was Mozart,” she finishes proudly.

“Margaret - ” the man sing-songs to get her to change topics and John feels a flourish of fondness for the older man.

“Er, I’m afraid we didn’t prepare…”

“Oh pish. I’ve taken care of all of that. In fact…” she hurries over to the hall closet and pulls out a tiny outfit on a hanger. “I hope you don’t find this presumptuous, but I know she’s so fond of that bee…” she trails off and holds up the yellow and black striped outfit.

“Oh Margaret…” John stands and gently fingers one of the glittering wings. “It’s beautiful. Look, love,” he says, turning to Rosie and holding up the outfit. “Look what Nana got for you.”

“Me?” she gasps, reaching out, but John holds the costume well away from her messy fingers.

“Ah, ah, this is for after you’ve had a wash, you messy thing.”

“Takes after you,” Sherlock murmurs and it’s so out of the blue that John snorts.

“Oh no. That’s all your influence. When you _do_ deign to eat.”

He turns to hand the costume back to Margaret, but she’s looking between them like the cat that got the cream.

_Oh no._

But before he can dispel whatever machinations she’s cooking up, she’s off on another tangent.

“And before you think you’ve been neglected, I’ve you all squared away as well.”

“Oh _God_ ,” Sherlock moans as William tuts.

“I find it’s best to just let her have her way. Less painful.”

“And he would know,” she says with a wink. “The Festival begins at noon and goes all day, well into the night. I’m in charge of pumpkin distribution. Daddy has rented a truck for the occasion. John, I might need your big manly muscles for that.”

“What about my big manly muscles?” Sherlock pouts.  

“Yes, of course, dear,” she replies with another flick of her hand and Sherlock leans back, utterly affronted.

John chuckles as he passes by and pats him on the shoulder. “Together, yeah?”

“Yes,” he clips with a miffed frown and John knows that they cannot start what is already going to be a very trying day in that mood.

“Margaret, didn’t you say Mycroft was coming?” he ventures.

“Yes, indeed,” she replies, glancing at her watch as she tugs more Halloween decorations out of the closet as if it were Narnia itself. “Should be here within the hour.”

“Well, won’t he have to wear a costume, too?” John innocently asks and Sherlock chokes on his tea.

“Right you are. You know, I think I have just the thing…” she trails off, disappearing into the adjacent room in a whirl of black and orange.

“Well played,” William says with a smirk and a grunt as he stands and heads towards the stairs to ready himself.

John grins into his coffee, quite pleased with himself for bringing a smile to Sherlock’s face, if only for the briefest of moments.

“Thank you for that,” he murmurs when the kitchen is quiet once more. Or as quiet as it can be with an eating two-year-old.

“Well,” John begins as nonchalantly as he can manage, “if we’re going down, I’m taking everybody with me.”

“Quite right.”

***

“You’ve got to be joking,” he blurts, staring at the flimsy piece of leather on the bed. “Margaret, I can’t wear that! I’ll freeze my - well, I’ll freeze!”

She sighs and shakes her head as she gathers it back up again. “You know, Daddy thought Mark Antony was pushing the limits, but you’d look so dashing!”

“I’d look so naked!” John replies, looking to Sherlock in the doorway for help, but he’s being oddly quiet. “Please tell me you have another option.”

“Oh of course, dear. Behind Christmas, this is my favorite holiday. Don’t you worry.”

“I’m starting to,” he mutters under his breath, but Sherlock doesn’t have a quippy reply for that either.

“Sherlock, your turn,” she says, getting hold of his sleeve and tugging him out the door.

John is just able to hear him say, “Can’t I be a homicidal maniac? They look like everyone else,” before the door slams shut behind them, startling Rosie from her puzzle on the floor.

“Sorry, love. Did that scare you?” he asks, bending down and running a hand through her curls. Rosie stands and tugs on his trousers, bringing him to seated and climbing into his lap. “Just needed a cuddle?”

She nods and settles against his chest. Her bee costume is lying on the bed, waiting for the inevitable struggle it’ll take to get her in it, and John sighs, closing his eyes and taking in the moment. He’s been trying to do that more often lately. Remembering that, though they’ve suffered so much, his daughter still refuses to go to bed unless he’s tucked her in.

“What do you think? I don’t think Mark Antony is for me, is it, darling?”

“No,” she says, shaking her head to drive the point home and John chuckles, pressing another kiss into her hair.

“Maybe they’ve got a Superman shirt lying about and I can borrow one of Sherlock’s poncy button downs. Poppy’s got to have a pair of spare glasses, right?”

“Yes,” she dutifully replies, but he’s lost in thought and not about costumes. It feels odd to refer to Sherlock as ‘Sherlock’ to Rosie, despite the fact he’s been doing it since she was born. His parents are her grandparents.

 _“But that would imply that I… that I occupy a certain place in her life,”_ he had said in the car.

Of course he bloody does, John thinks, tensing immensely. _How could he think - ?_

But he just sighs and presses another kiss to Rosie’s hair. “Let’s go see what Nana has in store for Daddy, yes?”

“Yes,” she replies as he lifts her off his lap and sets her on her feet.

“Preferably something a bit more recent than the Roman occupation.”

***

_Jesus bleeding Christ._

She gave Sherlock a waistcoat. And a pocket watch. And a cravat. And a bloody top hat.

“Um, what - “ he clears his raspy throat, “what are you supposed to be?”

Sherlock sighs as he does up his cufflinks. “A gentleman, obviously.”

“Quite a stretch for you then,” he teases because if he doesn’t, he might very well fall to his knees and beg for mercy.

 _Twice_ , his mind unhelpfully supplies.

“How do I look?”

John swallows. “It’ll do.”

“Where’s yours? I’m not doing this alone!” Sherlock immediately panics, eyes going wide and darting about for the nearest escape route.

“Relax, relax. She’s putting it together, god help me.”

And Margaret chooses that moment to enter with Rosie done up in her bee outfit (which is obviously the most adorable thing ever) and a… redcoat jacket. And breeches. And socks. And a tricorn hat.

 _Christ._ Better than Mark Antony, though, he reminds himself.

“Where on earth did you get that?” he blurts instead.

“Oh here and there,” she says vaguely, squealing when she catches sight of Sherlock. “Oh a regular Mr. Darcy!”

“Who?” Sherlock asks and John snorts.

“Jane Austen.”

There’s a pause, before Sherlock asks again, “Who?”

“Nevermind.”

He takes the outfit from Margaret and retreats back to his room, peeling off his jeans and jumper, dirty from helping Margaret load the pumpkins into the back of the rented truck, and taking a quick shower before wrestling the tight but stretchy breeches onto his legs. She’s given him the waistcoat and everything and, as he pulls the long socks up to his knees, he at least takes comfort in the fact that he’ll be able to wear wellies in the no doubt muddy fields, anachronism be damned.

He enters the hallway once more, fussing with the buttons lining either side of the coat but stops dead at the sight of Sherlock (top hat, tails, and all) holding Rosie in her little bumble bee outfit.

“So?” John asks, spreading his arms wide and giving a little spin.

Sherlock just blinks like he did that day when John asked him to be best man.

“That good, huh?”

“Yes,” he blurts. “Right. Good.”

“High praise indeed, isn’t it, love?” he directs to Rosie, coming over and pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“She doesn’t exactly match, does she?” Sherlock points out, gesturing between them in their waistcoats, soldier and gentleman both.

“I suppose we could have made her into a cannonball or something,” he mutters and Sherlock barks out a laugh, bringing a ridiculously pleased smile to John’s face.

“Not quite as cute, though.”

“No, definitely not.”

“Well,” John sighs, gesturing to the stairs, “shall we?”

“Yes, Mycroft arrived ten minutes ago and he’s already arguing with Mummy about dressing as a Victorian constable. I don’t want to miss another moment.”

***

John carries Rosie down the lane, grateful that Margaret had purchased a black turtleneck and thick black leggings to go under the bee outfit to keep her warm. The antennae headband currently perched on her head has little ear flaps but John knows those are not long for this world. She’ll have them off and tossed into a pile of leaves before the evening is through. Still, for the moment, she’s remarkably well-behaved and heartbreakingly precious, gasping at the decorations adorning the houses they pass, pointing out witches hanging from tree branches and carved pumpkins lit up for the day.

At least the coat is keeping him warm, despite the fact that his hands are a little chilled from carrying Rosie. Even Sherlock was allowed to break the illusion and stuff his fitted trousers into a pair of wellies for the occasion.

Margaret is still back at the house battling it out with Mycroft and during a lull in the yelling, William ushered them out the door surreptitiously but quickly with a whispered, “For the love of God, go.” Now, he walks amiably beside them, face decked out in white paint, a ghoulish drip of red blood coming from the side of his mouth. It’s a look very much at odds with the perpetual warmth in his eyes. Rosie had initially been afraid when he appeared with the high collar and starched hair of a vampire, but with assurances from both John and Sherlock and a cuddle from Poppy, Rosie was adequately convinced that her grandfather wasn’t going to eat her in the night.

John can hear the distant music getting louder as they approach the town’s center and they’re joined in the street by more and more neighbors on their way to the festivities. And the closer they get, the further Sherlock seems to retreat into himself.

“Hey,” John murmurs, knocking into him to get his attention.

“Hm?”

“Enjoy this, yeah? It’s her first real Halloween.”

Sherlock visibly swallows and nods, managing a tight smile when Rosie claps her eyes on him, but he doesn’t hold her attention for long because as they turn the corner, the fair comes into view and Rosie gasps.

“Daddy,” she breathes.

“Wow,” John says, coming to a stop and watching the chaos in front of them. The entire village square including the adjacent field have been transformed with orange lanterns hanging between the trees interspersed with fairy lights. Hay bales are littered with glowing pumpkins and decorative gourds as a horse drawn carriage disappears into a maze beyond. Skeletons mingle with superheroes and ghosts and princesses between tents and stalls with baked goods and hot apple cider. The upper levels of the local pub and inn have been turned into what seems to be a very scary haunted house going by the screams coming through the cracked windows.

“Oh good god. It’s the outer circle of Dante’s Inferno,” the man beside him mutters.  

“Sherlock, it’s a county fair.”

“It’s hell itself.”

“It’s bobbing for apples.”

“Precisely!”

John sighs and shifts Rosie in his arms. She’s already squirming and when she whimpers out a “Down, Daddy,” he can’t help but comply, holding tight to her hand as she immediately reaches out for Sherlock’s with her other. He takes it automatically like the habit it is and they proceed forward, a bit more slowly, Rosie navigating the uneven terrain under her little black boots.

“Where to first?” William asks. “I can stay for a bit before I’m on duty at the cider stall.”

“I have absolutely no idea,” John replies, utterly overwhelmed by the possibilities. Sherlock looks like he’d love nothing more than to run in the other direction but Rosie’s five tiny fingers with her surprisingly strong grip are keeping him firmly in place.

A little boy with his face painted like Spiderman runs by them laughing and John points him out.

“Look, they have face paint, Rosie. Shall we try that?”

“Yay!” she squeals, jumping in the air and knowing that her fathers will catch her.

_Her fathers._

The thought catches John so off-guard that he stops dead in the middle of the street. Where the hell did that come from?

“John?” Sherlock prompts, eyeing him curiously, but he manages a “Sorry, yeah. Face paint,” in return, mustering up a smile for Rosie and resolving to let her get whatever she wants.

Whatever she wants turns out to be a blue butterfly on her cheek and John watches from afar with William as Sherlock criticizes the artist’s technique (“No, no, no, that looks nothing at all like a violet spotted charaxes!”). John really should go over and save the poor girl whose brush is beginning to shake, but William’s piercing and knowing look is grounding him upon the muddy earth where he stands.

“So this is what Sherlock grew up with,” he says without preamble or the upward inflection indicating a question.

“Yes and no,” William simply replies. “Yes, it was always here. No, he never went.”

John hums out a vague sound, which gets stuck in his throat as Mycroft appears, being literally manhandled by Margaret over to where they stand before she disappears back towards the welcome tent. His constable hat is tilted and the fake moustache he wears is askew.

“Ah, my boy, you made it!” William cries, stepping forward and clapping him on a stiff shoulder.

“As if you had any doubt I would,” he manages through gritted teeth before inclining his head towards John, sending the constable’s hat sliding over his eyes. “John.”

John is sure his face is beet red beneath his tricorn. “Mycroft,” he replies, lauding himself that his voice doesn’t shake with laughter, even if his shoulders are.

“Daddy, look!” Rosie’s voice carries across the short distance between them as she runs (as well as she can) across the sodden grass.

“Hello, lovely girl! Let me see?” he says, scooping her up and holding her out in front of him so she doesn’t get mud on his red coat. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, kissing her on her unpainted cheek. “Did you see who’s here?”

She gasps and immediately launches out of John’s arms and into Mycroft’s. “My!”

“Yes, yes,” Mycroft says, acting put upon as he allows her to touch his fake moustache (her expression simultaneously warring between awed curiosity and outright disdain). But then John hears Mycroft’s voice lower as he leans in, whispering, “Hello, little one” and pressing a kiss to her cheek.

Rosie lets out a peal of laughter as the moustache tickles her delicate skin and John can’t help the fond smile he directs their way. Mycroft has been overprotective, but not in an overbearing sort of way, doting on her and spoiling her when he thinks no one is watching. John has a sneaking suspicion it’s how Mycroft treated Sherlock when the mad genius was a boy, and still does, again when he thinks no one will notice.

“Where to next, love, hm? Want to go on a ride?” But before Rosie can respond (or tear her gaze away from the caterpillar on Uncle Mycroft’s face), William stiffens beside him.

“Oh dear,” he mutters and it’s filled with such dread that John wonders what on earth has disturbed the normally unflappable head of the Holmes family.

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh shit,” Mycroft blurts, and that’s what really has John on edge because so rarely does the British Government slip into the colloquial.

He looks up and sees Sherlock hunched in on himself, being spoken to by a gentleman about his height, well-built body wrapped up in toilet paper like a mummy. Not his face, though, which is handsome in that dark-hair, pale skin, public school sort of way. Derision practically floats off of him in waves.

John hates him immensely.

“Who the hell is that?”

“Edward Montgomery III,” Mycroft grits.

“Made Sherlock’s life a living hell in school,” William says for John’s sake as Mycroft hands Rosie back and steps forward before William’s hand clamps down on his arm. “Don’t. He’ll never forgive you.”

John watches this Edward person poke Sherlock in the chest before throwing his head back in what is clearly mocking laughter. “Sod that,” he mutters, marching forward and catching the last bit of whatever this tosser finds so amusing.

“ - knew that the sociopath had a heart?”

Rage consumes him and before he can think about the consequences, he’s stalking over and blurting out, “Sherlock, come hold your daughter.”

Sherlock’s head snaps up and his eyes go wide.

“Daughter?” Edward scoffs but it gets stuck in his throat as John hands Rosie over and fixes him with a glare and a carefully arched eyebrow, daring him to say anything else.

Sherlock’s large hand immediately cups the back of Rosie’s head, as if shielding her view from the peon in their presence. His violinist’s fingers thread gently through her curls and she leans back and presses a sticky kiss to his tight jaw, unaware that she’s being used as a pawn in this particular power play.

Still, the sight warms John’s frigid limbs.

“Uhh…” Edward stares, jaw slack, eyes darting between the little girl in Sherlock’s arms and the man by his side.

“Hi, John Watson,” he introduces himself, but doesn’t offer his hand to shake. “Sherlock’s partner.”

“Partner…” the dickhead mouths, as if the word is beyond the scope of his comprehension.

“C’mon, love,” John says, wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s waist and tugging him closer, pressing a kiss to his shoulder through his coat. “Your Dad wants us to check out the maze before her Highness gets cranky.”

But Sherlock only nods, allowing John to lead him away. Neither of them spares a glance for the man they’ve seemingly left speechless by the face paint artist who was watching the back and forth with entirely too much delight.

“Why did you do that?” he finally clips when they’re far enough away, and John slows his gait, letting his arm fall back to his side.

“Sorry - I thought - ”

“Well, don’t,” Sherlock snaps, shushing Rosie when she bristles at his tone, before stalking over to the rest of his family, including Margaret who - _oh, lovely_ \- has rejoined and witnessed the entire debacle.

John follows at a slower pace, turning at the last moment to catch Edward still staring completely gobsmacked at their backs. He can’t even enjoy this minor, petty victory. Not when Sherlock is glowering now where he talks in low, clipped tones to his parents, both of whom look confused at whatever just transpired. John doesn’t blame them. He gets closer to the group and pulls his red coat up tighter around his neck, attempting to fight off the early evening chill.

“Sherlock, why don’t you and John take Rosie on the hayride before it gets dark,” Margaret suggests. The hat of her scarecrow costume wobbles with her semi-forced cheer. “Jane Westwick’s son is volunteering over there. You did so love to play in the mud with him.”

“Christ, what is this? Old home week?” he spits, fire in his eyes.

“It’s a popular local fair, Sherlock,” John murmurs. “Looks like everyone and their family are here.”

“Well, I _hate_ _it_!” he shouts, drawing stares and making everyone in his immediate vicinity jump, not the least of which is Rosie, who makes that whimper she gets before she evolves into full-on wailing.

She reaches out for John and he immediately takes her as she buries her face in his coat, tiny body shaking with sobs.

“Sherlock, you’ve frightened her,” Margaret chastises.

Sherlock looks like he, too, is going to cry. “I’m sorry, Rosie. I - ”

“Brother mine, a word?” Mycroft says and it’s not a request.

John knows something’s wrong when Sherlock goes willingly, without even a snarky muttered comment. Before he does, though, he opens his mouth once more to say something, reaching out a hand to touch Rosie’s trembling shoulder but it falls back to his side before he can make contact.

“John, why don’t you take Rosie on the hayride,” William says. “I’ve got to get to my shift at the cider stall. Swing by when you’re done.”

“Yeah, will do,” John murmurs, still running his hand up and down Rosie’s back. “C’mon, love. Shall we go for ride?”

“Yeah,” she warbles, voice heartbreakingly unsteady.

“Yeah,” he repeats with a smile, bopping the antennae (miraculously) still on her head. Before he departs, he spares a parting glance for Sherlock hunched over speaking to Mycroft in hushed tones. John can’t see the look on his face, but his body language signals defeat, not fight.

Whatever the hell that was, he’d really rather not have a repeat performance.

John trudges through the muck, hiking Rosie higher on his hip and heading for the line of people waiting for the next hayride. She’s stopped sobbing, but the occasional hiccup still racks her body.

John is no stranger to Sherlock’s tantrums, but he’s never snapped at Rosie. Or even in Rosie’s vicinity, lest the child misinterpret his anger as being aimed at her, as children are wont to do.

He gets in the meager line and knows that Rosie is back to her normal self when she stops cuddling and demands in not-so-many words to get down. He places her on her feet and keeps an eye on her as she runs over to the painted pumpkins stacked on a nearby hay bale and traces their cartoon features with her tiny finger.

“She’s gorgeous.”

“Hm?” he starts, turning to the voice to find a man not that much younger than him (though it’s hard to tell beneath the Frankenstein makeup) watching Rosie. “Oh, ta. A right menace but cute when dressed like a bumble bee. Rosie, not too far, please,” he calls and she backtracks a step.  

The man chuckles and only when he starts counting the people in line does John realize he’s working the hayride. He tells the people about four behind John that they’ll have to wait for the next cart and turns back in time for Rosie to come running back to John, but stop dead when she spies the man’s green makeup and lurid scars.

Her face screws up but John crouches down in front of her before she can devolve into full-blown wailing again. “No, no, darling. It’s okay.”

“It’s makeup,” the man offers, crouching down as well and pulling off his flat-top cap, revealing messy blonde hair. “See?” He runs his fingers through it and it tufts up further. John swallows, willingly admitting that it’s a good look.

Rosie peeks out from John’s neck and reaches for the man’s hair. He bends down further, close enough for her to touch, which she does with relish.

“Don’t tug, love,” John murmurs. She giggles and the man smiles.

“See? Just a bit of pretend,” he says.

 _Pretend,_ John thinks rather bitterly. Yes, that’s what he and Sherlock have gotten very good at recently. Pretending everything is fine.

Rosie reaches out a finger and gently traces one of the man’s rubber scars with more care than he thought the toddler possible of as a cart trundles up the beaten grass path.

“Well, that’s my cue!” the man says, holding up a hand for Rosie to high five which she does with relish.

“Thanks for that,” John manages as the man tugs his cap back on his head.

“My pleasure. I love kids.” He turns and pulls over a little step stool to the back of the cart before offering a hand to the young woman nestled in the hay closest to him. “Everybody off! Watch your step!”

They unload and John watches the first two people in line ahead of him, a father with a boy around eight, climb up and settle in the hay before it’s his turn to hoist Rosie up and plop her down where she promptly sneezes.

“Bless you,” John laughs as he joins her, waiting patiently for the remaining people in the queue to climb aboard.

The man working is the last to hop up and settle into the hay across from John as another man dressed as a superhero takes his place by the stepstool.

“Joining us?” John asks.

“Shift’s over. Thought I’d get one ride in before my family make me go through the haunted house.”

“Not a fan of jump scares?”

The man laughs. “No indeed. You should see me at a horror film. Bloody nightmare. I’ve lost many a date that way.”

John chuckles and then grunts as Rosie plops herself down in his lap. “Well, hello, miss.”

The ride is low on scares, thankfully, but even still, it’s frightening enough for Rosie to spend half of it tucked under John’s jacket. Unlike the other man, the haunted house will clearly _not_ be next on the agenda.

“I take it you’re visiting?” the man asks, smile kind.

“How could you tell?”

He chuckles. “It’s not a big town. You get to know at least the faces, if not the names.”

“Yeah,” John replies. “We’re from London. Just visiting friends. Well - a friend’s parents.”

“Oh nice.” He doesn’t ask for Margaret and William’s names, and John doesn’t offer them up. He’s not sure why, but he almost wants to keep Sherlock out of this conversation. The man across from him is good looking and with John finally dipping his toe into a pool he had long avoided, well, a little flirtation never hurt anybody.

Especially when he catches the man glance at his empty ring finger. Clearing his throat, he asks, “What about you?”

“Cardiff. I’m a partner for a law firm there, but I grew up here. Mum’s running the baked goods table as we speak.”

“Haven’t made our way over yet, but I think someone might like a brownie or two,” he says, squeezing Rosie as he picks out hay that’s gotten stuck in her tights. Conversation dies after that, as the scary music filtering in from well-placed speakers in the maze takes over, but their eyes dart to each other in the darkening sky every so often and they give a sheepish grin before staring elsewhere. It’s sort of thrilling, even if John considers himself, for all intents and purposes, spoken for.

The cart eventually trundles around the final corner, bringing the rest of the fair back into sight. Sherlock is somewhere in there, moping. Potentially still quite cross with John for doing something he had deemed harmless, but which in hindsight, was actually remarkably stupid.

Pretending to be in a relationship. Pretending to be his _partner_. It’s too ridiculous a thought. So ridiculous, in fact, that it makes John’s heart hammer and his palms sweat as a longing the likes of which he hasn’t felt in a long time, if ever, settles heavily in his gut.

_Christ._

“I recommend the snickerdoodles,” the man says as the cart rolls to a stop and the stool is placed at the back for them to disembark.

“Noted,” John replies with a smile, climbing out before turning to lift Rosie from the back. The man offers a hand to her as she scoots to the edge and John lifts her into his arms with a nod of thanks.

An older woman dressed as a witch bustles up to the cart, pointy hat going lopsided as she comes to a stop in front of the man, grabs his hand, and begins to drag him away. “Oh, good! Darling, let’s hit the haunted house before the line gets too long again.”

“I’ll leave you to your fate,” John says with a chuckle, to which the man offers an exaggerated look of fright.

“Nice chatting with you.”

“Likewise,” John replies, watching him go for longer than strictly necessary. He eventually turns to find Sherlock standing off to the side, acutely observing a ring toss game. Almost _too_ acutely observing it. Rolling his eyes, yet swallowing down his mounting anxiety, he places Rosie on the ground where she promptly runs over to Sherlock and latches onto his breech-clad leg.

“Hi,” John manages as he saunters up to him. “Feeling better?”

Sherlock grunts out a non-response, but his hands are clasped in front of him so tightly, his knuckles have gone white.

“Right,” John manages. “Well I promised your father we’d swing by the cider stall when we were done. And someone recommended the baked goods.”

Sherlock nods, but he remains silent, finally unclasping his hands to run his fingers through Rosie’s soft curls. She stares up at him with utter adoration. It makes John’s heart clench.

They meander over, Rosie skipping between them, glittery facepaint glowing in the light from the lanterns and carved pumpkins.

“Survived the dreaded maze, did you?” William asks as they approach, already ladling hot cider into cups for them.

“It was touch and go there for a bit, but we emerged relatively unscathed,” he jokes, crouching down to help Rosie lift her cup to her lips.

Margaret appears in the tent a moment later, pulling Sherlock down for a kiss as William all but shoves a cider into his hands.

“Sherlock, have a cup. Thaw that icy exterior,” he says with a wink and John nearly snorts. Only William Holmes could get away with that level of teasing and Sherlock proves that by taking the drink with only a glare in return.

William eventually beckons Rosie over, standing her on a chair behind the table and helping her ladle cider for the neighbors that come up. John and Sherlock step away, standing awkwardly side-by-side, not touching but only just. John takes out his mobile and snaps a photo of Rosie and William, just to have something to do with his hands (though with a frame, it would make an excellent Christmas gift).

Sighing, he tilts his head towards Sherlock as he pockets his phone once more. “Look, I didn’t mean anything by - ”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock clips.

“Clearly it’s not,” he returns.

Glancing meaningfully at his parents, Sherlock murmurs, “Just don’t.”

But John can’t let it go. Turning his body away from potential eavesdroppers, he leans in close, close enough to smell Sherlock’s aftershave, and murmurs, “Sherlock, please.”

“Boys!” Margaret calls before Sherlock can answer. “How about we take Rosie home.” She bustles over, cheeks positively aglow at how close they’re standing. “Mycroft’s already pulled the national security emergency card and shipped off back to London. You two go enjoy a pint. Or three.” She nudges Sherlock in the back and gives John a cheeky smile.

“Mummy,” Sherlock grits through his teeth and, for the first time all trip, John actually sympathizes. She’s misreading the tension horribly.

John wants to argue, but Rosie is in William’s arms, rubbing at tired eyes, and to be perfectly honest, the thought of time alone with Sherlock is both intoxicating and terrifying.

“If you’re sure...”

“Absolutely,” she replies with a wink.

“Okay. Thanks.” He walks over and places a kiss on Rosie’s unpainted cheek. “Be good for Nana and Poppy, hm?”

“Yes,” she dutifully replies, pressing a kiss to his cheek in return.

“Thank you, love.” He waves them off before turning to Sherlock and squaring his shoulders. No turning back now. “Shall we?” he asks, but Sherlock is already turning on his heel and striding towards the inn, leaving John no choice but to follow.

Typical.

 ***

The pub is loud and colorful, full of boisterous, costumed consumers as the screams from the haunted house filter in from the upper floors.

Sherlock doesn’t even look to see if John is behind him as he makes his way through the crowds and plants himself at a table in the corner. John supposes that leaves him to get the drinks. With a roll of his eyes, he bobs and weaves his way to the bar, managing to flag down the bartender long enough to order two pints.

He pays and carries them over to the table, placing them down on the soggy coasters leftover from the prior occupants.

“Cheers,” John murmurs, not even bothering to clink Sherlock’s glass before he’s taking a healthy gulp. If Sherlock wants to retreat into a shell and pretend John doesn’t exist, then so be it. John will just -

“Sherlock,” someone says and Sherlock glances up, face paling at the person who’s stopped next to their table.

“Daniel.”

It’s the man from the hayride.

“Hey,” he says, gaze flitting over Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock stands so quickly, he sloshes their beer onto the table. “Hello.”

“It’s… really good to see you,” the man murmurs and John knows, he _knows,_ that he has no business being here. He is not _wanted_ here.

John is staring at Sherlock, Sherlock is staring at the man and the man’s gaze is trying to be polite and dart between them, but keeps getting pulled back to Sherlock like a fly to wine.

“Sorry, I never did get your name, did I?” the man - Daniel - says. “Daniel Westwick.”

Margaret’s words from earlier come back to him then: _“Jane Westwick’s son is volunteering over there. You did so love to play in the mud with him.”_

“John Watson,” he rasps, grasping Daniel’s outstretched hand and giving it a weak shake.

“You two know each other?” Sherlock asks and John doesn’t think he’s imagining the semi-strangled quality to his voice.

“Met on the hayride,” John manages just as Daniel asks, “Sherlock is the friend whose parents you’re staying with?”

“Right.” John swallows. “Margaret and William,” he says, despite the redundancy. Daniel clearly knows who they are.

He’s also clearly trying to piece together what exactly John and Sherlock are to each other. ( _Get in line,_ John thinks bitterly.) His eyes dart to Sherlock’s left hand, just as they had done to John on the hayride.

“Mind if I join you?” he asks, joviality in full effect, sincere though it seems to be.

John defers to Sherlock and is surprised when the man murmurs a soft, “Not at all,” as he quickly sits down once more.

“Christ, it’s been years, hasn’t it?” Daniel asks, taking a seat and going to run his fingers through his hair, but meeting the Frankenstein cap instead. His hand drops to his lap, before nervously wrapping around his pint glass.

Sherlock nods, even managing a small smile. “Last summer before university, I believe.”

“Right,” Daniel replies. “You stopped coming home after that.”

John doesn’t think he’s imagining the wistfulness in his voice.

Sherlock shrugs. “Got busy. Work.”

“Ah, yes. Detective, right? I sometimes find your name in the paper, even all the way out in Wales.”

Sherlock’s cheeks flush and even John’s face is beginning to heat, but it has nothing to do with the stuffy atmosphere in the pub. Or with the compliments coming from those within it. Beads of sweat are gathering at his temples beneath his tricorn hat and his breathing is coming nearly in pants as his panic rises.

“You know, I should go,” he blurts out, surprising everyone, himself included.

Sherlock eyes him carefully. “John, you don’t have to - ”

“No, I’ve left Rosie with your parents. You know bedtime’s been tricky lately. I really should get back. Stay, though. Please. Enjoy yourself,” he rambles, struggling to mean it. He offers a tight smile to Daniel and holds out his hand. “Good to meet you.” His mother would be so proud of his manners were she still alive.

“Likewise,” Daniel replies with a slightly furrowed brow, as if confused by John’s abrupt departure. Sherlock won’t be, though. No, bloody Sherlock sees all.

“Well then,” he says, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his redcoat. “Goodnight.”

He bolts out of the pub and the crisp night air is like a slap across the face. He gasps a breath and watches as his exhale mists through the air like smoke.

Laughter pierces the night - the rides and games are still going strong - but the fair has long since lost its charm and John disappears before anyone can come looking.

Not that they will, anyway.

***

_“You did so love to play in the mud with him.”_

John groans and shakes the various scenarios from his head, pulling the collar of his red coat tighter around his neck as he makes the short trek down the road to the Holmes house. The stones of the driveway crunch under his boots and it takes him far longer than it should for a former soldier (especially one still in uniform, outdated though it is) to notice that someone is sitting on the front step.

“Oh. Hi.”

William smiles and takes a puff of his pipe. “You’re back early.”

“Yeah, well…” John scratches at the back of his neck, “things were getting a bit too rowdy for my taste.”

“Where’s Sherlock?”

“Getting rowdy.”

William raises a skeptical eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound like my boy.”

John scoffs and it comes out more bitter than he intends. “Well, I’m learning a lot about him this evening.” _And nothing at all._

William stares at him for a moment and, for the first time since they were two ships passing in 221B after that fateful bonfire, John feels like the man is weighing him. The question is whether or not he finds him wanting.

“There’s a bottle of scotch on the sideboard,” he says after a loaded moment. “Go pour a glass and come back out.”

John swallows audibly. “Yes, sir.”

The house is warm, but quiet, and there’s a fire crackling in the hearth that he’d be more than happy to collapse in front of. Margaret must be upstairs with Rosie. He heads to the sideboard as instructed and pours enough scotch to get him through whatever conversation is about to happen but not so much that William might begin to worry about his drinking habits.

He returns to the steps and settles in beside the older man, taking comfort in the familiar smell of tobacco, one that always lingered on his grandfather’s jumpers whenever he gave him a hug as a child.

“So why are you really home early?” William asks, cutting right to the chase. “You and Sherlock…” he trails off and, out of the corner of his eye, John can see him searching for the words. “Well, you seemed to have a bit of a spat.”

“Yeah. Or something. Truth be told, I couldn’t tell you what happened exactly. I thought I was helping, but...”

William hums. “Sherlock doesn’t always know what to do when people help. He’s dealt with so much of the opposite all his life that it… throws him. And he does so hate to be thrown.”

John thinks of Edward Montgomery III and how he should have punched him in his smug, distinguished face. But then William says something that derails all of John’s thoughts on the subject:

“From what I can tell, you’ve been throwing him since the moment you moved in.”

John opens his mouth to respond, but honestly isn’t sure what to say. The truth, perhaps, is a good place to start. “It actually wasn’t the spat that had me leaving. No, Sherlock was catching up with an old friend and I wanted to give them…” _Space? Time?_ “... the opportunity to do so.”

William frowns. “Which old friend?”

“Daniel Westwick.”

“Ah.”

“You know him?”

“Very well. He and Sherlock were inseparable all throughout secondary.”

And if that doesn’t just curdle John’s insides. “Right.”

“Had a bit of a falling out before they went off to uni. I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but I think Daniel was a bit in love with him. Sherlock may have returned his feelings, but - well. You know him. Feelings aren’t really his forte.”

“Oh he has them all right,” John says, feeling slightly defensive.

“Oh, no doubt, no doubt,” William concedes. “But discerning them isn’t his strong suit. Would you agree?”

_“So, in fact… You - you mean…”_

_“Yes...”_

_“I’m your… best…”_

_“Man.”_

_“... friend?”_

_“Yeah, of course you are. Course… you’re my best friend.”_

Would John agree? Christ, he’d write it in the bloody sky.

“Wait. You thought they were in love with each other?”

“No, I thought Daniel was in love with Sherlock. My boy, however, has always played his cards close to the vest.”

“But - you knew? Even back then? That he was… That he liked...” _Use your words, Watson._

Williams laughs heartily. “Oh we knew that boy was as gay as a Christmas tree ever since he was five-years-old.”

John marvels at what it must be like to be on the receiving end of that kind of acceptance. His father just - he would only -

Christ, even now he can’t think about it.

“Wow,” he manages after an undetermined stretch of silence.

He glances up to find William watching him carefully, not with pity but with compassion. And suddenly, John wants to tell him everything. He wants to tell him about the failed pickup that first night at Angelo’s. About killing the cabbie to save the man he’d barely known for 24 hours. About the pool and Dartmoor and “I don’t have friends. I’ve just got one.” He wants him to know about the last words he’d never said to him in person ( _“You machine.”_ ) and the ones he’d said on the phone ( _“You could.”_ ) and the ones he’d wished he’d said before it was all too late. He already knows everything about Mary, but he wants to tell him about how he never expected to be a dad, and even now, he’s terrified every damn day that he’ll become his father. He wants to tell him that meeting Sherlock was the first good thing that had happened to him in far too long and that losing him nearly ended what little life he was left with. He wants to tell him so many things.

Instead, what he starts with is:

“I love your son, sir.”

“I know that, John.”

“I mean - I’m _in_ love with him.”

William tilts his head and smiles softly, gently patting John’s hand where it rests on his knee. “I know that, too.”

John laughs but the sound gets stuck in his throat as tears prick at his eyes. “I don’t deserve him.”

“I have a feeling Sherlock would say the same thing about you.”

And that’s what does it: Sherlock’s father validating every ridiculous, terrible, wonderful thing that’s happened and been felt and been lived. The tears spill over and when William’s arm comes around his shoulders and squeezes tight, they only fall harder.

“You’ll be okay, John. You both will.”

John sniffs, getting himself under control, and nods, squeezing the hand that rests on his shoulder.

“I hope so. I can’t - I can’t lose him again.”

William leans into him, making sure his next words are heard loud and clear. “And he can’t lose you, either.”

John licks his lips and nods, clearing his throat as he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Christ, sorry.”

“Don’t be, my boy,” William assures, handing him his glass and clinking his own tumbler against it.

John chuckles ruefully and downs a gulp, relishing the burn and warmth it provides. “Thanks for taking us in. And I don’t just mean this weekend.”

“That’s what family does, John,” William simply replies. “Blood-related or not.”

The thought of being a part of the Holmes family warms him in a way not even the liquor can manage, but before can offer a response, the door opens behind them and Margaret pokes her head out.

“What’s this? A vampire and a Revolutionary War soldier on my front stoop? With scotch? Dear me,” she teases, cupping the backs of each of their heads. If she notices John’s swollen eyes, she says nothing, bless her. “Her highness is in bed with a full belly. And there’s stew still on the hob for when your limbs get frostbite.”

John leans back into the touch and he allows himself to be mothered as she runs her fingers through his hair.

“Happy birthday, Margaret,” he murmurs.

“Thank you, dear boy. Now where’s my wayward detective?”

John really doesn’t have the strength to say that he’s catching up with an old boyfriend, but thankfully, William saves him from himself.

“Got waylaid.”

Her eyes narrow and she hums as she stares into the distance, like she can see just what exactly Sherlock is up to. It honestly wouldn’t surprise him if she could.

“He’ll find his way back. He usually does.” She winks down at him before patting him on the head once more. “I’m off. There’s a glass of sherry with my name on it and a romance novel I’ll never admit to owning that won’t read itself.”

John snorts and glances at WIlliam who looks utterly besotted as he stares at his wife. He wonders if that’s how he looks when he stares at Sherlock.

She returns to the house as William bangs out the remaining tobacco from his pipe. “Let’s go get some stew and warm up. Like she said, he’ll find his way back.”

John nods and stands with a grunt, holding his hand out to help William to his feet and hoping Sherlock’s parents know him as well as they think they do.

***

The stew, while delicious, sits heavy in his gut and John strains to hear any noise over the wailing of the wind. He tries to pretend that the reason he can’t sleep is because he’s in a new bed and not because he’s waiting up to hear Sherlock come home, but he’s always been a shite liar.

Eventually (after entirely too long) the front door creaks open and John finds himself holding his breath as slow, socked footsteps make their way up the stairs. They pause outside of his room and John turns his head, not daring to roll over lest Sherlock hear the squeak of the mattress, and watches the shadow stall beneath the door, oscillating for a moment, before retreating to the room down the hall.

John blows out his breath, unsure if he’s relieved or disappointed.

He waits a good amount of time, long enough to hear the flush of the toilet and the door close once more before he gives sleep up as a bad job and pads down the stairs to the living room, where the fire is still burning in the grate. Settling into the leather sofa, he pulls the blanket off the back and cocoons himself in the comforting smells of the Holmes house: cinnamon, pine, stew, and tobacco, despite the fact that William is only allowed to smoke his pipe outside.

He pauses as he listens for any noise upstairs, but the house is quiet. He supposes he should be grateful that Daniel didn’t come home with him.

_Stop it, Watson._

He didn’t think to bring a book and, deciding that the contents of the Holmes’ shelves would be far too convoluted for his already muddled brain, he picks up the remote and clicks the television on, mindlessly scrolling through the channels until a familiar if haunting tune brings him up short.

It’s the theme to the film ‘Halloween.’

Fitting, given the horror show that seems to be his life at the moment. Settling down into the cushions, he watches little Michael Myers wreak havoc and mayhem, feeling the familiar sense of dread creep up his spine as it does whenever he watches a scary film.

Harry used to torture him with them as a child.

And so immersed is he in the mounting terror that John jumps as Laurie eventually bumping into the sheriff coincides with Sherlock poking his head into the living room.

 _“It’s Halloween. Everyone’s entitled to one good scare,”_ the sheriff says from the television as John attempts to regulate his thundering pulse.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asks, almost hesitantly, still standing half behind the wall.

John shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Sherlock glances at the television and raises an eyebrow. “And you thought Michael Myers would be the one to lull you into the land of Nod?”

John can’t help it - he snorts. “You actually know who Michael Myers is?”

“Obviously. Budge over.”

John is surprised - very - but he complies, despite the fact that there’s plenty of room left on the other side of the sofa. Not to mention two perfectly good armchairs. Sherlock pulls the knitted throw off the back of William’s chair and tosses one end to John and flounces onto the couch. It’s the only word for it. John can only think to share half of the blanket that’s already around him in return. His socked feet brush Sherlock’s bare ones where they rest on the coffee table, but John’s attention remains firmly on Jamie Lee Curtis on the television.

He shouldn’t say anything, he really, really shouldn’t - but he just can’t help himself. “I guess you had fun.”

Sherlock shrugs, but doesn’t remove his eyes from the screen. “It was tedious.”

“I meant tonight,” John clarifies. _With Daniel._

“So did I.”

John stares at him for a moment because it makes no sense. Sherlock seemed more than happy to see his old friend when he passed by their table, but then John left. Perhaps… well, perhaps Sherlock didn’t want him to go. The thought warms John more than either blanket that’s piled on top of him.

“So… who _is_ Daniel?”

Sherlock’s responding eye roll is practically audible. “I know you already know. Which one was it? Mummy or Daddy?”

John smirks. Can’t get anything past him. “Your Dad. But he didn’t tell me everything.”

Sherlock frowns, looking at him for the first time since he sat down. “Why do you want to know everything?”

John shrugs. “It’s you, isn’t it? Your past. Your history. Potentially…” he’s treading on very thin ice here, “... an important person to you. And I’ve never even heard his name before.”

Sherlock sighs. “Must we?”

Guilt washes through John for pressing. “S’pose not. No.”

 _Seems only fair, though_ , John thinks somewhat bitterly. _Bloody genius knows everything about me._

The movie continues and the body count gets higher and higher. Beside him, Sherlock is practically vibrating with energy, radiating the kind of tension that only comes from harboring a plethora of unsaid things. So John waits until Sherlock is ready, because if there’s one thing he knows, it’s that Sherlock Holmes has never been able to hold his tongue.

Sure enough, he doesn’t have to wait long:

“Why did you do that today?”

John shifts. “Do what specifically?” He knows what.

“With Edward.”

He sighs and scrubs his hands over his face. The courage that the whiskey with William gave him has long since left. “Because he was hurting you. And I didn’t like to see that.”

“But why did you do _that_?” Sherlock stresses and John groans.

“Sherlock, I heard what he said. He said, ‘who knew the sociopath had a heart.’ And I know for a fact that you do. I’ve seen it. It seemed - well - it seemed like the only way to shove it in his face. And if that made you uncomfortable, then… I’m sorry.”

“I wasn’t uncomfortable,” he whispers.

“Oh.” He wants to ask him what he _was_ feeling then, but they seem to have reached their quota of heart-to-heart conversations for this evening. Sherlock returns his focus to the television and John can only follow suit.

“He kills the _dog_?!”

“Well, he’s not a very nice man, love,” John says, immediately freezing at the slip. “Sorry. I’m used to comforting Rosie. Habit.”

Sherlock barely acknowledges him, though John can tell his shoulders remain tense. _Dammit._

On screen, the doctor makes an eerie pronouncement: _“Death has come to your little town, Sheriff. Now, you can either ignore it, or you can help me to stop it.”_

John can’t do this. He can’t sit here and watch a film less than a foot away from a man who might as well be on the other side of the Atlantic.

“I’m off, I think,” he murmurs with a grunt as he stands, fleeing the warmth of the cocoon they had created on the sofa.  

“I thought you couldn’t sleep,” Sherlock nearly accuses, sitting up straight and looking downright stricken that John is leaving. Odd.

“Yeah, well, I have a little girl that’s going to jump on my bed at 7am whether I get rest or not, and I’d really rather prefer the former than the latter.” He folds the blanket and places it on the back of the sofa again before heading for the hall.

“I don’t want to just be a prop you use to pretend,” Sherlock whispers. So quiet and yet it stops John in his tracks. “Even if you’re doing it to save me,” he inhales, bracing himself, “you kill me every time.”

 _Oh._ That’s what this has all been about.

And John’s heart just shatters.

“I’m not pretending,” he replies, voice cracking as he slowly takes a step back into the living room. “That wasn’t - that wasn’t pretend. If anything, that minute was the one true thing I’ve done in the last five-and-a-half years.”

Sherlock finally meets his eyes and John sees he’s drawn his blanket around himself like a shield. He takes another step closer, then another, waiting patiently until Sherlock finally lifts the blanket and moves over to John’s old spot so John can now occupy the one he was just in. They turn slightly facing each other, breathing carefully, unsure what to do now that the words, _those_ words, are out in the open.

John licks his lips, because he knows he’ll have to be the brave one this time. He’ll have to be the one to make the leap. “If that’s pretending,” he begins, scooting slightly closer until their knees knock together, “then I’d happily spend the rest of my life pretending with you.”

“Oh,” Sherlock breathes. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes, I’ll - I’ll pretend with you.”

“Okay,” John says again with a small smile.

Someone screams on the television and both of them jump, before chuckling self-consciously and hiding reddening cheeks.

Sherlock scoots closer and John leans back against the cushions, waiting to see what Sherlock will do. He feels like a bloody teenager trying to figure out how to put his arm around his date. But Sherlock doesn’t disappoint him and leans into John’s side, almost burrowing into his warmth as John pulls the blanket over them both once more, leaving his arm to pillow Sherlock’s neck.

He’s not sure what’s happening, but he sure as hell isn’t about to stop it.

The film continues to play and John continues to ignore it, opting instead for counting his breaths and marveling at the fact that Sherlock’s head seems to fit perfectly against his shoulder. The fire pops in the grate, causing them to tense once more (for a duo supposedly with nerves of steel, they’re rather showing their hands tonight), before they gradually relax, sinking further into the cushions and each other.

“This place is great,” John murmurs after a moment, breath ruffling a curl on Sherlock’s forehead. “Why were you so against coming here?”

Sherlock sighs heavily and John feels his ribs expand against his own. “My mother sees through me. Always has. I knew if she took one look at me, at us, she’d know - ” he halts and bites his lip.

John gently nudges him, but his heart is in his throat. “She’d know what?”

 _“It was the boogeyman,”_ the television says.

_“As a matter of fact, it was.”_

“She’d know I’m in love with you,” Sherlock says, resigned.

John sharply inhales. _Be brave, Watson._ “Well, if it helps, your father already knows I’m in love with you.”

Sherlock glances up from where he rests against his shoulder, eyes impossibly blue and eyelashes unspeakably long as they blink owlishly against his pale cheek.

“You’re shaking. Are you cold?” John asks.

“No,” Sherlock breathes. “I’m terrified.”

John’s eyes soften and he leans forward, fingers of his free hand coming up to cup Sherlock’s flushed cheek. “Well, everyone’s entitled to one good scare, I hear.”

Sherlock’s breath ghosts across his face. “That’s on Halloween.”

“It’s 12:01,” John whispers, sealing his lips over Sherlock’s.

It’s not a fancy snog, by any means, but is simultaneously the most simple and most glorious thing he’s ever been a part of. Their mouths fit together like the teeth of a zipper and, before he knows it, he’s pulling away to gasp for air because his head had been so full of _Sherlock Sherlock Finally Sherlock_ that he forgot to breathe.

“Oh,” Sherlock whispers, looking as dazed as if he’d taken a hit to the temple.

“Oh,” John repeats before cupping his cheek more firmly and pulling him in once more. They get tangled up in the blanket, but Sherlock somehow ends up half in John’s lap, hands tentative on his shoulders as he traces John’s lips with his own.

“I’m scared too, you know,” John whispers as he pulls away, swallowing and licking his lips as if chasing the taste of Sherlock on them. “Messing this up - losing you - is one of my biggest fears.” He holds Sherlock’s face in his hands, forcing their eyes to meet and hold, so he knows just how much he means these words. “If we do this, no pretending. Us, real or not at all.”

Sherlock’s eyes go a bit glassy and he nods, holding on to John’s wrists as he leans in and pecks him quickly on the mouth. “Real or not at all.”

John’s hands leave Sherlock’s face and wrap around his waist, pulling him in close so he can bury his face in his neck and breathe him in. His fingers trace the bumps of his vertebrae as his lips ghost over his collarbone.

By the time the room comes back into focus, the fire has died and the credits on the film are rolling. John shivers and not just from the chill.

“Let’s go to bed,” he whispers and Sherlock tenses, but John gently runs his hand up and down his thigh. “To sleep. We can… work our way up to that. Whatever that may be. And only if you want.”

Sherlock’s eyes darken as his pupils blow wide. “Oh I want.”

And then the madman is kicking the blanket off and properly straddling John’s lap, diving back in to snog him senseless before John can even think to take a breath. Every drop of blood in his brain rushes south and he doesn’t even register the fact that he’s grabbed a handful of Sherlock’s bum until Sherlock gasps into his mouth and grinds down harder.

“Sherlock -” he tries to no avail. “ Sherlock… I love you, but if you don’t stop squirming, I’m going to come in my pants.”

He gets just a moan in return, one so decidedly debaucherous that, for a moment, John wonders if Sherlock did just that.

“Christ, love,” John grunts as he gets a hold of his hips and halts his movements. “I refuse to have our first orgasm together be in your parents’ bloody living room.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but remains still yet panting. “Spoilsport.”

And John can’t help it, he bursts out laughing and the ethereal creature in his lap joins him a moment later.

“I don’t know about you, but…” Sherlock inhales, leaning into John’s palm as he pushes sweaty curls away from his face, “that felt pretty real to me.”

“Yeah,” John murmurs, watching the man he loves press a kiss to the pulse point on his wrist. “Yeah it did.”

They eventually calm down enough to leave the sofa, folding the last blanket and fluffing the pillows so Margaret can’t tell just what they almost got up to on her upholstery.

“Stay with me tonight,” John murmurs as they stop outside his door.

But Sherlock merely fixes him with a look that so clearly reads, _Obviously. Don’t be an idiot,_ before he turns the handle and waltzes into a room that might as well be his now. John can’t help but smile dumbly, because that’s just it. He is his now. They are theirs.

And there’s no going back, not that either of them would ever, ever want to.

It’s been long enough.

“Happy Halloween, John,” he murmurs as he settles under the covers, head resting over John’s heart.

John presses a kiss in his hair and laces the fingers of his left hand with Sherlock’s right.

“Happy Halloween, Sherlock.”

***

“Do you have everything?” Margaret asks for the fifth time since they started loading the car, and they didn’t bring that much with them to begin with.

“Yes, Mummy,” Sherlock groans, tossing a bag in the back that John is pretty sure they didn’t arrive with.

Margaret fusses over Rosie in her arms, promising to see her at the holidays when Father Christmas will bring her all sorts of goodies. John makes a mental note to prepare now that Rosie is old enough to understand where exactly the presents are coming from (and to be excited by the actual gift and not just the wrapping paper).

Sherlock slams the back door shut and accepts a hug from his father as Margaret passes Rosie to her Poppy so she can practically tackle John.

“It was _so_ good to have you here, John,” she says, squeezing him tight.

“Thanks, Mum,” he murmurs and he feels more than hears her sharp intake of breath. When she pulls away, her eyes are wet.

“Oh, my boy,” she breathes. “At last.”

He flushes and stares at his shoes, before forcing himself to meet her watery gaze once more.

“We never got you a proper birthday present.”

“Oh you did,” she whispers as her gaze finds Sherlock briefly before drifting back to John. “You absolutely did.” She cups his cheeks in her hands and places a kiss on his forehead. “Take care of my boy.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies. It’s the most important order he’s ever been given in his life.

Margaret backs away and pounces on Sherlock next. He lets her hold him for a moment before he starts to squirm, extracting himself from her embrace and moving to stand beside John next to the car. If he notices John’s eyes are a bit misty, he keeps his deductions to himself.

“You’re welcome to stay the night, you know,” she says, as she moves back over to William and straightens one of Rosie’s tiny pigtails.

John glances at Sherlock who, with merely a look, demurs to him. “That’s kind, but I think we’d like to be home for trick-or-treating.”

“Isn’t Rosie a tad young for Mars Bars?” William chuckles and John smirks.

“Oh not Rosie. But I don’t think we could rob the kids of the chance to get candy from the great Sherlock Holmes, could we?”

Mum gasps and claps her hands. “Is he going to wear the hat?”

Sherlock opens his mouth in indignation, but John’s hand on his lower back halts his protest.

“Yep.”

“Oh take pictures please!”

“You betcha,” John grins, reaching down and pinching Sherlock’s bum as if to say _I’ll make it worth your while._

Mum narrows her eyes at him knowingly and his ears redden as he clears his throat and reaches out to take Rosie from her Poppy.

“Say bye, love.”

“Bye, Poppy. Bye, Nana,” she dutifully responds, blowing air kisses as John straps her into the carseat.

“Drive carefully,” William instructs.

“Text us when you get there,” Margaret implores.

John had forgotten what having family felt like. While Sherlock looks like he’s slowly being suffocated, John never wants them to stop.

“Will do,” he responds, pulling the keys out of his coat pocket and opening the driver’s side door. Sherlock, however, gets pulled into one more kiss before he can make his escape to the passenger side.

“Mummy, unhand me!” he whines, but she merely gushes, “Oh you,” in return. She does whisper something in his ear then, though. Something that has his eyes going soft, his cheeks flushing pink, and his lips quirking up into a bashful smile that he so desperately tries to hide.

“I will, Mummy,” he replies, almost solemnly, and John knows that whatever was said is not for him to know.

They (finally) get into the car and John elbows Sherlock to make him wave while he backs out of the driveway. He rolls down Rosie’s window so she can shout one last goodbye before they drive off. The ride is quiet, music playing low on the radio, and John (just because he can now) reaches over and laces his fingers through Sherlock’s, resting them on the center console.

Sherlock stares down for a second before squeezing John’s hand in return.

“That was nice,” he murmurs. “Really nice.”

“It… was actually,” Sherlock concedes.

“Oh, did you remember the candy your mother set aside for us? She knows we didn’t get any for the trick-or-treaters.”

Sherlock pauses. “No, but I did smuggle the Mark Antony costume into the back.”

John takes his eyes off the road so suddenly, the car serves. “You did not.”

“Oh yes I did,” he says, looking pleased as punch.

“And what, pray tell, did you have in mind for it?” John asks, trousers already going a little tight.

“I have some hypotheses,” he says, leaning over the console and ghosting his breath across John’s ear.

“Sherlock.”

“Which will require thorough and energetic experimentation.”

“Our daughter is in the back seat!” he croaks.

“She’s not yet three! Right, Rosie?” Sherlock asks, turning to her and she responds with a spirited “Right!” in return.

“See?” he says, nipping at John’s earlobe, before pulling abruptly away.

John glances over to find him looking troubled all of a sudden. “What? I know I put up a stink, but that didn’t mean stop! Appearances’ sake only, so Rosie can tell her therapist later that we tried to be appropriate around her.”

But Sherlock remains silent, staring at the keys hanging from the ignition.

“Hey. Sherlock, what?”

“You called her _our_ daughter,” he eventually murmurs.

“Well…” John trails off, all arousal fading as panic starts to settle in his chest. “Yeah. I mean - we’re… And even if we weren’t,” he gestures helplessly between them, “I’d still want you to be - I’d still want you to have that role in her life. She calls your parents Nana and Poppy. Hell, I called your mother ‘Mum’ not an hour ago.”

“You did?” Sherlock blurts.

“Christ, I’m bollocksing this all up,” he says, rubbing his forehead. They’re back to where they began, the conversation eerily echoing the one from the ride on Friday, despite all that has happened since.

“No, you’re not,” Sherlock eventually says.

“No?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No.” He laces their fingers together once more. “Our daughter, huh?”

John smiles and glances in the rearview mirror. “Hey Rosie, who am I?”

She stares at him like he’s gone crazy. “Daddy.”

“Right, and who’s this?” he asks, pointing to Sherlock.

“Sherlah.”

“Clever girl,” John says and he can tell that Sherlock isn’t quite sure where he’s going with this. “But what if we called him Papa instead?”

“Papa?” Rosie asks.

“Yep. What do you think? Daddy and Papa.”

“Papa,” Rosie repeats, rolling the word around her mouth.

John doesn’t dare look to his left.

“Papa!” Rosie eventually calls and when there’s no reply, John finally meets Sherlock’s gaze. His eyes are swimming.

“She’s calling for you, love.”

“Yes, Watson?” Sherlock manages, voice wrecked.  

She holds out the stuffed bee again and, this time, she doesn’t ask for it back. He places it in his lap reverently and slowly blows out a breath before taking John’s hand once more.

“Okay?” John asks.

“More than,” Sherlock replies, before suddenly, he’s over the console and pressing a fierce kiss to John’s temple. “I love you, John Watson.”

“Likewise, Sherlock Holmes.” He clears his throat and glances in the rearview mirror to make sure Rosie is distracted by the passing scenery. “Mark Antony’s in the back, you say?”

“I certainly hope so,” Sherlock replies, voice dipped low, and John barks out a laugh at the implication.

“You madman.”

Sherlock grins. “Your madman.”

John hums. “Does that make you my Cleopatra?”

Sherlock considers this for a moment. “I wouldn’t be opposed to some eyeliner.”

And John is thankful that the road they’re on has a wide shoulder as the car swerves again.

"Perhaps not the asps, though." 

“Maybe Mrs. Hudson will babysit tonight,” he manages as Sherlock nods.

“Maybe we’ll look into soundproofing the walls.”

And John thinks of all of the things they can look into; look _forward_ to: holidays and proposals and adoptions and marriages. Perhaps he’s getting ahead of himself, but then again, he knows it’ll happen. Now that they’ve taken that terrifying first step there is no doubt in his mind about the path that they’re on.

“Papa!” comes the cry from the back.

Sherlock turns around, looking incandescently happy. “Yes, Watson?”

“Mine, pease,” she grunts, straining against her straps as she reaches out for the bee again. At least she remembered the ‘please’ this time.

“Good girl, Rosie,” John commends as Sherlock hands the bee over.

“Do you think they’ll have face painting at next year’s Harvest Festival?” Sherlock asks as he turns back around.

John frowns. Sherlock abhorred the very idea of the fair not 48 hours ago. “Why, you want to come back?”

Sherlock shrugs, going for nonchalant and failing miserably. “I wouldn’t be opposed.”

John smiles and fixes his gaze on the road ahead. “It can be our first Watson-Holmes family tradition.”

Silence descends, but it’s not awkward or tense. John knows he’s just dropped a bomb of sentiment on his partner and he needs to give him his moment to process. He'll find his way back. After all, he always does. 

When Sherlock next speaks, his voice is rough:

“I’ll bring a picture of a violet spotted charaxes for reference,” he replies. “Just in case.”

**Author's Note:**

> \- Sherlock's comment about his costume being a homicidal maniac because they look just like everyone else was BLATANTLY lifted from The Addams Family. Wednesday Addams FTW.


End file.
